


dulce carmen mortis

by winteryknights (BlackcatNamedlucky)



Series: the grave and the garden [4]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), it's POETIC okay, that one comes from my english teachers beating me over the head for inconsistent tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackcatNamedlucky/pseuds/winteryknights
Summary: Andromache’s breathing is shallow, now, and brings blood to her lips with every exhale, and through it all she’s still trying to smile. Her eyes are free of fear, shining only with a love so warm Quynh feels it as a quilt wrapped around the six of them, and prays on a childlike hope that it could keep them safe from this moment.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien & Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf & Nicky | Nicolò & Quynh, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Series: the grave and the garden [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852273
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44





	dulce carmen mortis

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last story in a series, but can be read as a standalone piece

Andromache dies in battle. Of course she does. She had been fighting since her life began and there was no other way for her to go out. This has always been her destiny and it had been a long, long time since she made her peace with that.

~*~

Time seemed to slow down for her when it happened. It was like she could see everything happening in the fight around her, every detail slowed down so the room was frozen in the moment the knife pierced her abdomen.

She could see Quynh trapped in a wicked dance with one of the mercenaries, his face agonized but hers serene in its concentration. She tried to memorize every detail, not that she hadn’t the minute she’d first dreamed of the other woman, details she knew she could never forget.

Behind Quynh, Yusuf and Nicolò cut down two others, back to back, as always. Keeping each other safe, never knowing when they might _really_ need to. She remembered all the times she and Quynh had done the same. How they had been re-learning to do the same in these new, confusing times.

Though he was behind her, she saw Sebastien, frozen mid-strike, taking on the two remaining mercenaries, face twisted in fierce determination. Despite the tense and shaky ground he stood on with the team, she was glad he was back before she went. It wouldn’t have felt like it was her time, otherwise.

She looked to Nile last and saw her carrying a child to the exit. She was suspended in a run, gripping the kid to her chest in a desperate attempt to shield them from the carnage that filled the room. She thought about all the things she hadn’t been able to teach her, everything she hadn’t been able to say.

She figured that response to dying was only human.

~*~

Quynh sees it first and gives up on playing with her prey, slashes a dagger across his neck, not feeling his blood spray across her face as she runs to Andromache. She wrenches her assailant back but is unable to do anything before a shot rings out through the room and he crumples to the ground in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood. She turns and sees Nicolò, gun still raised and breathing heavy, a cold fire slowly fading from his eyes.

The moment breaks when Andromache pitches forward with a soft groan and Quynh whips around to catch her as she falls, slowly dropping to her knees and easing the other woman down to rest in her lap. Quynh is vaguely aware of the other four rushing to her side, but her attention stays focused on the woman she’s holding.

A hot tear rolls down her face and Andromache reaches up a weary hand to brush it away. The action says don’t cry, my love, and Quynh’s heart shatters all the more for it.

“I just got back to you,” she whispers, trying to disguise the way her voice is straining, and brings a hand up to cradle her head.

“I know,” Andromache says, and it feels like she’s biting back an apology that she knows Quynh will only dismiss. “I love you,” she says, instead, and this time no hand swiping at Quynh’s face could allay the tears.

A heavy hand lands on her shoulder, comforting and grounding, and Quynh doesn’t need to look up to see that Nicolò stands behind her, Yusuf kneeling next to him and grasping Andromache’s hand.

She remembers the days when it was just the four of them, the joy they’d had then. Before. But when Sebastien and Nile join the group, she’s reminded of the endless depths of Andromache’s heart, how careful she’d been with it, and can’t help but feel the same camaraderie with the two newest members of her family.

Andromache’s breathing is shallow, now, and brings blood to her lips with every exhale, and through it all she’s still trying to smile. Her eyes are free of fear, shining only with a love so warm Quynh feels it as a quilt wrapped around the six of them, and prays on a childlike hope that it could keep them safe from this moment.

“I love you all,” she rasps, and Quynh takes the hand she’d had pressed against Andromache’s cheek and grips the other woman’s free hand with it, like she could somehow use the touch to anchor Andromache in the world of the living. Andromache makes to open her mouth to speak again, but all that escapes is a hoarse breath before her eyes glass over and her hand goes limp in Quynh’s.

~*~

That evening they’ll bathe the body with spiced wine and perfumed water and wrap it in white linen, tucking myrrh and chrysanthemums among the folds. They’ll lay it on a pyre built of blackthorn and willow, and Quynh will paint a streak of tar up to the body before laying a lit torch at the foot of the structure, stepping back when it catches.

The fire will glow more golden than orange, and the sparks that fly out will carry anger and guilt away with them, leaving behind gaps among the smoldering embers for forgiveness and redemption to flow into.

~*~

The next morning, Nile will put Andy’s favorite record on. She’ll sit in the big chair next to the player with her knees folded up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, and close her eyes. She’ll be still until the faint hum of the spent side prompts her to get up and turn it over, but she won’t be able to get it to settle right through the tears in her eyes. Instead she’ll sink to the ground, record pressed gently against her chest as she rocks on her knees and tries to remember how Andy sounded singing along to it.

Booker will take a bottle of whatever is stashed away in the kitchen out to the ashes of the pyre, only to cradle it in his hands as he stares out over them at the rose-and-peach tendrils of daybreak. He’ll swear he can hear her voice in the breeze, reminding him what he has to live for. When the sun streams over the horizon in pale yellow rays, he’ll turn around and join his family again, slipping into the group with a gentle sort of ease, no longer afraid of shattering. He’ll leave the bottle on the doorstep.

Nicky will roll out sheets of dough as thin as paper. He’ll try to control the trembling in his hands as he chops hazelnuts and will only cut himself once, watching as blood races to spill through the wound before his skin knits itself back together. He’ll fare better zesting an orange into the bowl holding the chopped nuts, now coated in a generous amount of honey. It will be a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but in the moment it will be big enough to bring him to the verge of tears, though the set of his shoulders would not be able to betray the vastness of his pain to any besides the four other occupants of this little house.

Joe will sit at the kitchen table, fingers darkened by charcoal and eyes by tears. He won’t plan the sketch that emerges on the paper in front of him—the silhouette of a tall woman haloed by the entrance to a cave, with a labrys balanced across her broad shoulders— but he will recognize the memory all the same. He will think back to those early years, and the wide, easy smile she wore then that had been showing itself more often recently. He’ll feel the ghost of the warmth and relief he had felt upon their first meeting surge through his veins, and it will leave him somehow feeling both empty and soothed for it.

And Quynh will hide the burn on her forearm under the sleeves of Andy’s favorite sweater, the one that must have only a few patches of its original wool left after being repaired so lovingly and so attentively so many times. She’ll try to not think about if the others will take care of it once she’s gone, too.

**Author's Note:**

> that's all, folks
> 
> but no actually I enjoyed writing this story and the reactions I got on every work in this series gave me a whole bunch of confidence in my writing skills and stoked the flame of creativity that this movie set alight after many years of dormancy so, thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on the previous works, and a pre-emptive thank you to anyone who reads and comments on this one :)  
> i also want to thank my friends who lent not only their foreign language knowledge for only brief moments of fic (braadvengolor if you're out there, thanks for the French), but also time and dedication to beta for me  
> title means "the sweet song of death" and I legitimately emailed my old Latin teacher to make sure I'd translated it correctly  
> as always, kudos and comments are Much appreciated (even if you're just yelling at me to study for my midterms, which I put off doing to finish this), and never fail to make me smile even when I'm going through a hard time.  
> you can find me on tumblr at [the-sneering-menagerie](https://the-sneering-menagerie.tumblr.com) or my writing blog where I take requests at [redking-scripting](https://redking-scripting.tumblr.com)


End file.
